


lighthouse/darkhouse

by orphan_account



Series: PeterMartin Week 2020 [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gift Giving, Kissing, Light Angst, Lonely Avatar Martin Blackwood, M/M, Mysterious Architecture, PeterMartin Week 2020, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:14:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27506695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Martin is in the Lonely, heading for a structure that is a lighthouse, but also isn't. Peter has a gift for him there. It's rather ordinary, as gifts go.Part of my PeterMartin Week 2020 series.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Series: PeterMartin Week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2010283
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	lighthouse/darkhouse

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy this fic. It's a little different from the stuff I usually write...?  
> Please let me know if there's any tags you feel I should add.  
> This story has not been beta read.

It was like the opposite of a lighthouse, thought Martin, stepping slowly up the foggy hillside. Lighthouses had people inside them who took care of the equipment and kept an eye out over the water. They had large bright lamps that warned ships of danger. This darkhouse (as he'd started calling it in his head) had a beacon that radiated a cold, miserable hopelessness every time it swung around, and Martin knew who he'd find playing darkhouse keeper. 

It made sense, after a fashion. Peter didn't particularly like working if it wasn't something he already wanted to do. Out here, there were no ships to warn away. The sea—and Martin knew there was a sea, out past the edge of the hill, somewhere past all that fog—it was empty, and the darkhouse was just a cruel prop. He'd probably find Peter in there filling out crosswords.

The darkhouse beam swung out again across the foggy landscape. It washed over Martin, feeling like a fine, cool mist against his skin. It was refreshing, almost, in the way it chilled him. He tried not to think about what that meant for himself and his allegiances.

Martin stood there for a bit, blinking every time the beam passed over him, before resuming his journey up. He'd dawdled enough. He knew he could climb this hill for hours and never reach the top if he didn't want to, and he'd rather get this little exercise over with. So he stepped forward, intending on reaching the darkhouse, and the fog obligingly thinned to reveal a tower of grey stone. It looked ancient. (Abandoned.) Peter had said he'd be inside. Well, he’d _implied_ as much, at least.

Martin approached the rough-hewn rock entrance—the stone was slick with moisture, and he could hear water dripping, somewhere. The diffused light faded almost fully when he entered the tower, but enough followed him through the entrance that he could make out what looked like a small, bare room. There was another rough door at the far end, and something flickering softly against the wall beyond.

Martin headed in to find a coarsely cut, irregular slope, leading up to the next floor. The flickering had to be some kind of fire… it was stronger here, certainly. A fire inside the Forsaken? He peered up over the floor, cautious and quiet, but saw only a brightly lit room with a single occupant. It could be Peter. If it wasn’t… well, no use crossing a bridge he hadn’t arrived at yet. 

He climbed the rest of the way up. The room was strange, incongruous in its furnishings. A small, smokeless fire burned in a brazier, apparently unaffected by the fog curling in through the large window-hole. There was a neat little plastic folding table, two simple chairs, and some kind of woven rug on the stone floor. Peter sat on one chair, idly tapping at his smartphone. 

“You know, Martin,” said Peter, amiably, “it really is tiresome how often you need just one more move to finish a level.”

“That’s how they make money,” said Martin, stepping over to the other chair and sitting on it. Something about the situation felt so surreal he felt compelled to play along. “You think you need just one more move, so you can have it. For a price.” There was a box on the table he hadn’t noticed before. It was small, the size of a box a watch might come in.

“Well, it’s working,” said Peter, who didn’t appear particularly affected by this discovery. “There we go. Three stars. Right. Open the box, Martin, it’s for you. A little welcome gift—of sorts.” 

Martin looked suspiciously at Peter as he raised the lid. Peter only smiled at him the way he did when he wanted to be infuriating. Which was on-brand for him, really, and reassuring in its own way. When he looked down, he found the box full of little foil-wrapped shapes, like the sort he’d find inside a tin of Quality Street if someone had taken off the transparent plastic first.

“Chocolate?” asked Martin, frowning. 

“Try it,” said Peter. Martin glanced up again. The fire glinted oddly off his ice-chip eyes. “Go on. You deserve something _nice,_ Martin. Moving around within the Lonely isn’t easy, after all, and that book on management I picked up speaks very highly of rewarding employees who show promise.”

“Does it.” What were the odds these were horribly poisonous? He picked up a sweet at random and unwrapped it, revealing a smooth, small brown orb. It certainly smelled right for chocolate, and Peter didn’t have a _reason_ to get rid of him, not that he knew of. He placed it on his tongue and was immediately overwhelmed. 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” said Peter, intently. His voice sounded like it was coming from far away. “This chocolatier came very highly recommended, and you know I _had_ to pick up a box. He’s getting on in years, but he prefers to work alone. Says the chocolate loses its _esprit vital,_ otherwise.” He chuckled. “Artists!”

Martin touched the tears on his cheeks. He’d swallowed the fears and sorrows of an old, dying man. An entire lifetime of pain, mixed in with milk chocolate that gave perfectly against his palate. What _was_ this? He struggled to find a reason, but after these stone walls and craggy moors, it was… too much. Like woven silk after a lifetime of coarse linen. He’d _consumed_ that man’s loneliness, aged over decades and distilled to purity, and it had tasted divine. He couldn’t care about the _why_ s of it.

He reached for another piece, his heart sinking. Misery burst over his tongue again; cocoa mixed with cream and sugar until it was smooth and thick. _Mmn._ He didn't notice himself letting out that involuntary noise of enjoyment until after he'd done it, and he flushed. It was… a bit messed up. He knew why he was doing this, all of this. It didn't mean he was allowed to enjoy it. Was he?

Peter was watching him. He wasn’t smiling, but his eyes were lit up with something unnameable yet approving. His demeanor then shifted, suddenly; changed from solemn consideration to his trademark smarmy cheer. “You really are remarkable, do you know that?”

Martin looked at him with considerable doubt. He had heard Peter’s spiel before, on how uniquely suited he was for the grand purpose Peter had in mind, but he wasn’t sure how eating chocolate factored into any of it. “If you say so.”

“I do,” said Peter, amiably. Apropos of nothing, he continued, “Do you know where we are, Martin? Where we’re sitting?” He gestured to indicate the room they were in.

“Besides the Lonely?” wondered Martin. “No, I don’t. This tower’s got to be ancient, though. I’ve never seen anything like it. ”

“And that’s probably a good thing,” said Peter, getting to his feet and moving to the window. He was wearing his greatcoat and scarf, so Martin supposed he was okay with the chill. The fog curled in around his silhouette. (Dramatic bastard.) “This place has always been here. I found it when I was young; I climbed to the top of the tower--” and here Peter inclined his head towards what Martin realised was a set of footholds cut into the far wall--”and I lit the beacon.” He breathed out, his breath misting in the chill. "I think this place has always been here. Perhaps it grew here, out of the hill. Drawing in people afraid of being aloneat sea.”

Martin stayed silent. He watched the line of Peter’s shoulders as he breathed. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, like so many were. Peter would pick up the thread of his conversation when he was ready; for the moment, they would simply exist in each other’s space. It was… nice, actually. He contemplated having another chocolate, but decided to save them for later and replaced the lid. The fire crackled softly in the brazier. 

"Not many others could have made it here," said Peter, slowly. Martin looked up, realised Peter was a lot closer than before. "It's hidden, even from the other denizens of the Lonely. You should give yourself more credit."

Martin didn't say a word. He didn't know what he could have said. He fiddled with the foil wrappers in his hands and looked absently out the window; there were heavy clouds in the distance—a promise of rain that would never arrive. “I--I’m not sure I want to.”

Peter hummed. It wasn’t understanding, just acknowledgement. “Afraid you’ll turn into a monster?” It was more honesty than Martin was expecting, and he glanced up, startled. Peter’s eyes were on the box, so it was easier to look at him. 

“A--a bit, yeah,” admitted Martin. “I wasn’t expecting it to feel good.” 

Peter straightened at this, as though he hadn’t been expecting Martin’s answer. “That’s interesting. It feels _good_ to you?” He reached out for the box of chocolates, flipped back the lid, and picked out a small cube. “Here. Eat this. What do you feel?” 

Martin paused before putting the chocolate on his tongue. Peter was observing him with a strange intensity, the comfortable feeling of moments ago entirely gone. The air was tense. “Despair,” said Martin, unnerved, the chocolate starting to melt a little between his thumb and forefinger. “Loneliness. He fears he will die… and nobody will notice.” _And it feels good._ He put the chocolate in his mouth. His eyes closed without his permission, but the sensations were too bright, too rich to keep them open.

He felt a hand on his cheek, tipping his head up, and then he felt lips on his. Peter’s, of course. He opened his mouth, let Peter lick the sweetness from inside him. Martin felt a little drunk on it, the edges of his vision hazy with a stranger’s despair. Where was his own?

And how did he feel about Peter kissing him? (About bloody time.)

Peter kissed like he wasn’t kissing at all. He kissed like he wanted to taste those things Martin had mentioned. So Martin obliged, pushing the sensations towards him as best he knew how, imagining himself physically shoving it at him. It wasn’t elegant, but it must have worked, for Peter surfaced after barely ten seconds. He was breathing hard, and his eyes were glittering like rhinestones.

“That’s not the Lonely, Martin. That’s Beholding. You’re progressing _beautifully.”_

**Author's Note:**

> The fics in this series are set in the same 'verse.
> 
> Is it terribly obvious that I have no plot in mind? I just love these two. My nomination for most underrated TMA ship. Talk to me about them (and TMA in general) on Discord, where I'm emeril#8970.


End file.
